Friday, July 24, 2015

In the past two years I’ve
been lazy, lacking motivation or self-discipline. Nothing really matters
anymore, I hated being alive without my husband. When your life implodes, you’re
left a shell, a Gregor, a big roach carcass.

My re-make began with who
the hell cares, why am I bothering and, oh, screw it.

What did I still like? Or
love? Anything? ……..Not a lot…..

In my youth, I went through
an agnostic phase, but it shocked me that I could be so angry with my creator.
God, I was pissed. Life challenged and
punched us, but we made sweet lemonade. God gave me to love, someone, who loved
me.

Why wasn’t I dead? I don’t know,
but I believe God has plans. And since we’ve had a long term relationship, I’ve
been going with the flow, as much as I accepted my loss.

Mourning came in stages. The first six months tortured me with the greatest
loss of my life; everything I ever did wrong during my marriage haunted me. A
harsh look or loss of temper poked me in the middle of the night. Oh, how I
wished I hadn’t done that. I was tired, lazy didn’t want to do the little
things that would have meant so much to the man I miss so terribly.

I lamented my
mistakes. My darling, I am so sorry for all I didn’t do. My inadequacies plague
me. It hurt so much to realize I’d never be with you again in this life. This
loss grieved me beyond what I thought I could bear.

The depth of who you are never came to me
completely while you were alive. The beauty of you unfolded in a year of
remembering. How being with you allowed me to become more fully the self I am
supposed to be astonished me as I saw in retrospect. You had to be a strong man
to put up with me all of those years. That you loved me as much as you did
never failed to amaze me. I didn’t get why you loved me so much, but I’ve always
been grateful.

That your
(Kirt’s) soul, spirit, or essence is intact became my overriding concern. I
meditated on that until I realized it was a matter of faith that I must decide and
give conviction to whatever belief I chose. In some moments my belief is firm,
solid and then there are times…

If I believe
that Kirt’s essence exists in a meaningful way then it’s my duty to live out my
life with purpose. The law of karma guides my position on things. I may doubt
most things given the chance to talk myself out of it; I may have been one of
the early sophists, J but I have a perfect
acceptance of karma; is not to say I have depth of understanding on anything.

When I’m in
harmony with my higher purpose, I’m in good spirit despite the troublesome
items of life. This harmony eludes me since Kirt’s passing.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

I racist, so if I understand correctly, black people see
the world as we. If it happens to one of us, it can happen to all. You have a
group identification, as black, before you see your own individuality?

White people, the man said, see themselves as
individuals. I must agree with that. When the rich people controlling your life
is white same as you, you have to have different ways of viewing them. I’d be
stupid to run around berating the white banker, who wouldn’t give me a decent
interest rate because I’m a woman, or the white cop who pulled me over to hit
on me, but gave me a ticket because I wouldn’t co-operate. Although I must
admit that one hasn’t happened in a while; could it be because sexism has
diminished?

Worry about hurting my
feelings? That’s just another canard!

Understand the problem, MONEY & POWER; until you have
either of them, you get treated to varying degrees of shit in society.

I could go into a store in my work clothes, jeans and a
tee shirt to be greeted with a curt, “What?” The same clerk says, “Yes, ma’am, may
I help you,” when I’m dressed in better clothes and wearing diamonds.

You think it’s about black and white? Wonder why so many blacks
drop out of the fight when they make it? Black Republicans, and you’re talking about
white liberals not meeting some benchmark of understanding; I don’t get it.

I remember the older white man, put his arm around the
shoulders of a black entrepreneur, he leaned in close, the black man brought
his head nearer to the white man, who whispered in his ear, “Money’s all green,
right!” They nodded and laughed, adjourned to their seats at the table, every
man for himself.

MONEY & POWER is untamed and corrupt, if you get
enough, you’ll be assimilated. White or black,
it’s rich versus poor.

Get the poor scrapping at the bottom of the monetary trickle
down and the one percent dodges the tax bullet.

What was the reason they can’t pony up to cushion the
bottom just a bit or allow us the benefits we’ve earned over a lifetime? Oh, it’s
theirs and they’re keeping it.

I’m just one of the dumb white hicks, but black people
aren’t the ones I have problems with; it’s the powerful bastards trying to
unwind our safety nets.

They take private jets, while bitching that you can
afford a six pack on the weekend. To the rich we’re just white heads and black
heads on the face of the riff-raff.

MONEY & POWER make college education unaffordable and
gives scholarships to buddies’ children.

Black or white, it’s because of the sacrifices of our ancestors
that union laws protect us; or that we have any rights at all.

We’re in the same hole. I don’t want to stand on your
head to get out, and I don’t want anyone standing on mine, so said the silly,
liberal, white woman,

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Second anniversary, how sweet, we celebrated with dinner, an
alcoholic drink, and frolicking sex. He
bought flowers and a card; signed it with a love poem just for me.

We were only getting acquainted, who I was I hadn’t found out,
yet. He was just this big, strong, handsome guy, who wanted me there, when he
got home.

These first years, when I learned to live without fear flew
past. Responsibilities and rituals replaced duck and hide in my life. Clean the
house, wash clothes, make dinner; there you have my responsibility. No one
yelled at me, or thought to hit me. Sweet.

Getting the feel for someone takes time, and being an older
guy, he continued doing most of the stuff he did before; his wife had a whole
world to explore.

Bars and cars, my hubby enjoyed; I got into it a bit, but
live music did it for me. My arms around
him, cruising down the highway on his Triumph motorcycle gave us the green
countryside of Illinois and neighboring states. We found our common ground.

Hugging, kissing, hand holding, and having sweaty sex bonded
us physically. Even now my fingers tingle, nipples harden, and heart pumps
harder, when images of us cross my mind.

What a paradox, how slowly and quickly two years go by. Two
years ago the sky was cloudy, just as today. Today there’s no lightning or
thunder, or crying and screaming. How quickly a lifetime is over.

We matured, learning to love each other with a depth I never
thought those two could manage. Somehow, we created a life in which we thrived
individually, and together; not bad for a couple of young dummies.

My second anniversary as a widow, without you, brings the reflection of a woman with her man beside
her in spirit. After two years of torture, I can see and feel you again. Why did it take so long? Why am I so thick?

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

The second anniversary of my
honey’s death comes in six days. The enormity of who and what I’ve lost makes
me shutter. But as I calm down, I can
feel his love around me.

Days, when I feel him traveling
with me, please me; yesterday, at the mineral baths in Coamo, I felt him. The
mountain vibes and aruvadic music relaxed me in the hot water to the point of
experiencing his positive presence. Peace, how seldom I’ve felt it in a
lifetime.

The trials of life buffet me
as never before. It sucks to be old and alone, when you’ve been part of a happy
couple. The car maintenance alone wipes me out. I hate doing that.

I trusted everything about
my husband; he did what was best for us, no fooling. My other trusted inner
circle passed after him.

People aren’t who you want
them to be; who they are, takes time to discover. A new inner circle takes
time.

For my love, I walked away
from my business and life at home in Illinois to live two years with him on a
tropical island. I’m not crazy about the part where he left me, but I wouldn’t
miss the two years together for anything.

Alone on a tropical island
isn’t for everyone; I’m not sure it’s for me. For now, I’m embracing the aloneness;
hanging with my dogs, sleeping, watching movies, and trying to figure out how
to help the Puerto Rican island dogs. Oh, and going to the gym, which I do
three or four days a week.

MY friend, another widow,
enjoys much the same things as I, so we go to festivals, ballet, the bath in
Coamo, and beaches. The blue of the Atlantic Ocean mixed with the verdant green
island touched by orange, purple, and rose softens my nerves. She’s fun.

My lonely life doesn’t hurt
as much. That means I’m healing, but tears come without warning, some good,
some bad.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

Two years after the best in
my life left, I’m discarding the negative. To jerk the umbilicus out of my gut
caused me pain until the small sigh of relief.

The other love of my life my
baby brother, so handsome and charming when you wanted to be, but more often
moody and impossible to please. This one excelled in zingers designed to hurt; undermining
my self-confidence or embarrassing me puffed you up with bonus points.

Hurting me you did for
sport. Why? Kirt thought you just never out grew childhood behavior. Kirt made
me see that giving it right back didn’t
make me feel better. The whole time I was with that man, all we ever did was to
try to help you. Loving you as I did prevented me from hurling the zingers
back, seeing you screw your life up, while ridiculing me pushed Kirt to the
point of anger. My lovely man, who did so much for you. And, stupid, he didn’t
do it because you were so great; he did it because he loved me.

Kirt and I were active,
upstanding, respected members of the community. When we took you out to dinner
in the local diner, did you think talking loudly about your sordid experiences
in prison demeaned us? Did ordering my employees around, telling them to get me
right away or get you a cup of coffee, make them think less of us?

You’d come to our
celebrations to act mean and angry; verbally abusing your son at one party
until one of my guests wanted to take you out back to have a good talk on
behavior.

Kirt knew that I wanted to
hear what was happening with my brother, but would be out of sorts for days
after you came to visit, so he’d visit with you for hours, while you told your
tale of current woe for hours. And you had no clue when he’d had it with you,
and told you off.

Yes, brother Bill, you were
a pain in his ass. He always thought you were a spoiled brat, but he lived
under my dictum: love me, love my family.

Mom sent you to live with
us, when we first got married. Before you arrived, we were having sex all over
the house. Do you think he was jumping through hoops happy to see you every
night?

We were so proud when you
did the one bit of self-improvement in your life with that truck driving course
you took. We knew how many experienced truckers were out of work at the time,
but you did something in a positive direction.

Kirt used all of his
influence in the company, a union shop with no lay-offs, when your only driving
experience was hauling horseshit from the track to the mushroom farm. He
vouched for you; and how did you repay Kirt?

When a truck driver puts a
tractor and a trailer together, it’s the driver’s responsibility, yours! The
company had the coupling tested who was at fault came up in the resulting lawsuits.
Come on, how f’ing stupid are you?

Brother Bill came to our
house to tell Kirt how he was going to burn down the shop where they worked,
when Brother Bill was fired for the carelessness that caused that accident.
Kirt loved hearing how you planned to torch his place of employment, as you
raged.

With as much pleasure as you
too in trying to embarrass me in later years, you’ll get a charge out of the
years of company Christmas parties, when the guys would line up to dance with
me, so they could tell how terrific Kirt was and what an asshole my brother
was. All the stories they told of how you could watch a man bust his balls
without lifting a finger to help.

My favorite part of these
stories were how good my honey was. I listened to them and thanked them for
sharing. Lastly I reminded them that I picked my husband, not my brother.

I assume it was the last
time you were arrested, the time shortly before we left for Puerto Rico, he
rode with you from our home in Yorkville to western Iowa, where you had to go
to court. He listened to you whine all the way out there, as he sat in sheer
agony. The judge saw my husband’s pain. Lucky for you he thought he was your
father and gave you leniency.

Do you know how much money we ante-ed up for lawyers and bail for you? It never occurred to you to pay it back or say thanks.

And believe it or not, we
had other things we could have done with the thousands that went to your
defense.

The one time he ever called
on you for anything; you wouldn’t do it.

“Call
your sister; she’s upset. I can’t get her to calm down; talk to her.”

You laughingly told him to
tell me to get another house and refused. I’ll bet you were surprised when he
came unglued after a lifetime of tolerating you.

Yes, Brother Bill, you were
a pain in his ass. And just to inform you that you showing your ass to people I
knew only made you look bad.

In the two years he’s been
gone you haven’t had the decency to call me or send a card saying, sorry for
your loss.

Goodbye, Bill, so long. I
love the baby brother you were; the man you’ve become, well, I’d rather not
bother.

Saturday, July 4, 2015

Catharsis, that’s what I need, a good f’ing
enema. Shit my guts out and let the stink fall where it may.

Whatever I put my thoughts
or energy into becomes the most important item of my day. Shopping or taking
care of the dogs momentarily takes it out of my mind, but sooner or later I get
back to it.

How do you multi-task doing
wonderful, positive things, while pondering why your mother didn’t love you? So
maybe, it’s time to spill my guts and get it out of my system.

Mommy, I remember when I was
four I did something that made you very angry. So scared by your wrath I ran
around the dining room table to escape, but you cornered me by the china hutch
and kicked the sick out of me; until my head throbbed. You instilled fear.

At five I failed a lesson of
focus and pay attention. It was the fourth of July, fireworks popped up and
down the block. You wanted to be nice to me. The sparkler held firmly in my
hand, as you lit the little grey stick, moved ever so slightly, when the folks
across the street lit off a firecracker.

The flash of the stick in my
hand struck my mother on the thumb. Her shriek scared me witless; I just stood
there with my mouth open, holding that stupid sparkler.

The ember died; I stood on
the porch and cried, knowing something bad was going to follow. I expected to
get hit, but now, I realize your hand hurt too much. Scared and waiting, I stood in the corner on
the porch; until finally, you came out carrying a suitcase.

“You don’t love me. You
burned me. I packed your stuff; get out!”

At first I was just happy
not to get hit. She closed the door behind her as she went back in the house.
The tiny joy of escaping a beating became lost in a sea of despair. I don’t
know how long I stood there crying, but cried it out.

A five year old standing on
the porch knowing, you’re not welcome, inside feels alone deep in the little
soul. I did not know what to do. Terrified, abandoned, I dragged my suitcase
down the street to the corner before mommy came to get me.

This isn’t going to be a
laundry list of what the woman has done to me.

I feel sorry for you,
Evelyn, whatever made you so wicked to me, must have been hell, but you have
continued to not love me throughout my life. Why did you hate me?

Loving you, but being
forbidden to touch you or hug you, hurt.

When we can’t love, we’re defective
somehow. I know you’re capable of love. Without a broken wing I can’t seem to
connect with you, and I’m tired of trying.

We bonded over the deaths of
our husbands. It was swell; once over the cold war began again. Mom, I don’t
like this game; I quit.

At your age, sooner or later
God or the devil is going to be reaching out for you, so I’ll just say good
luck, thanks for the womb.